"Sometimes."
Currier was beside her, his hand on her arm. **You'rc ignoring your guests."
She felt a moment of resentment, then squelched it. "You're right. I'll see you later. Clay; have a good time."
"I will." He gave her a wide smile. "You give a hell of a party and I love you, and if you think I should call Myma, I will."
Judith Michael
Laura kissed his cheek. "I love you, too, and I think you should do what makes you happy."
On the stairway to the roof garden, Currier said, "You spoil him."
She frowned. "How?"
"You don't tell him what to do. You could make him toe the line, work harder, settle down."
"You mean treat him even more like a child?" They stood at the top of the stairs. "You don't understand Clay, Wes. He's been looking for someone to take care of him ever since our parents died. He turned to Ben and Ben let him down, so he turned to me. Of course I could tell him what to do. He might do it. But that wouldn't help him grow up and take responsibility for his own life. Anyway, I don't want to run his life. I have my hands full with my own."
"I've offered to help you with that."
Without replying, she pushed open the door to the roof garden and immediately was surrounded by her guests, and it was five hours before the last guest had gone and they were alone again. The caterer and his staff were still in the kitchen, washing the liqueur glasses and dessert plates they had retrieved from unlikely comers throughout the house, but Laura and Currier were alone, sitting in the two armchairs in the bay window of her living room. All the lamps had been turned off but one. "Wonderful party," he said. "You have a way of making everyone feel special."
*Thank you." Her voice was almost inaudible.
After a moment, he said, "Something's been bothering you ever since I got back this aiftemoon. Are you going to tell me what it is?"
She sat back, her face in the shadows. "I don't want us to be together anymore, Wes."
He watched her steadily, his body controlled and very still. "I thought we agreed to be friends as long as we hved apart."
Laura made a gesture of frustration. "Friends. That's a code word. It means we go out together and sometimes we sleep together, and now all of a sudden it means you act the host at my parties. It means you don't expect to marry me, but in every other way you'd still be my husband. We'd share everything except an address." She gave a small laugh. "I can un-
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derstand why you're so successful in business, Wss. You don't give up; you keep the pressure on until others bend just enough to fit most of what you originally wanted/*
He smiled. "But you've known that for a long time, and all that time you've enjoyed sharing your life with me. If you've met someone else, I can understand that, but it doesn't mean everytiiing has to be broken off completely."
'1 haven't met anyone. Not anyone new." She hesitated. *1 saw Paul a few weeks ago, while you were gone."
At that. Currier's face underwent a subde change. He was supremely confident of his ability to contend with opponents he could see and evaluate, but his skills were weak, and perhaps useless, with a shadowy figure from Laura's past whom he had never met. "You're going back to him?"
**No. Of course not. For one thing, he's married—^
"Married? You never told me that."
She smiled faintly. "There are probably thousands of things I've never told you, Wes." They were sUent; the only sounds were die rattling of dishes and muffled conversation frx)m the kitchen. "All that matters is that I'm in love with him, and it isn't fair to you, it's not honest, for me to live as if someday I might love you. Because I won't, Wes. If I haven't by now, I'm not going to. I can't believe you haven't accepted that for a long time; it's just that you've been comfortable with me, so you ignoied what you knew. I like you, I like being with you and woiking widi you, but that's all. And you shouldn't be spending your time with me when you could be finding someone else who will give you what you want."
**It's more than being comfortable," he said, his voice rough. ''Damn it, I've never stopped wanting you. I do a lot of running around in my life, and I like stability and affection at home, and you give me that, even if you don't love me. Is that irratiQiial? Then I'm irrational. And now that you have your own heme—■"
"^Are you paying part of the rent on dns place?" she asked abruptly.
"No." One of Wss Currier's greatest skills was the ability to move finom one thought to another without effoit **Of course not. I would have asked you first."
Laura bowed her head slightly. "Thank you. Then what part did you play in setting my rent?"
Judith Michael
He gave a short laugh. "I hoped you'd just chalk it up to good fortune. I convinced the owner to reduce it. It was a very small favor. But that's all I did; I made no promises on your behalf. Yes, I did; I made one. I promised him you wouldn't get emotional and wreck the place the night you chose to break off with your lover."
She heard the pain in his voice. '*It was more than a small favor, Wes, and I thank you. Isn't it amazing that I'm still thanldng you after all these years? You'd think I would have learned to stand on my own feet by now."
"You're miming a corporation that owns four hotels; you're standing very tall, my dear."
Laura winced, wishing she could love him; it would have made everything so much simpler. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. And you're still propping me up. That can't go on forever."
"Why not?" He leaned forward. "Laura, I love you. I've loved you for so many years I've come to count on it." He stopped for a moment, and Laura knew it was difticult for him to admit that. "When I come back from a trip I want to know I'll be coming back to you. I've counted on having you there, waiting for me, for so long that . . . damn it, I'm afraid to lose you! Can't you understand that?"
"Wes, don't, please don't. You don't mean that— **
**Goddam it, of course I mean it. How many people do you think have ever heard me say that? You've got to understand this: I've come to rely on you."
"No," Laura said quietiy. "You've come to rely on having me."
"It's the same thing. Don't shake your head; I'm telling you it's the same thing: I've had you for five years. You've been there when I wanted you, you've given me what I needed, you've taken from me when I wanted to give to you. I counted (m that, and you could count on me. You still can." He leaned forwaid and took her hand and held it, tiKMigh it was ume-^nsive. **Listen to me. What you feel for me is love of a land; you cou^'t have been to me what you have been if you didn't feel son^ediing very real. You know it; you can't deny it.** TbCTe was a silence. **Can you? You've felt scmietfaing!"
**Of course," she said quietly. "But it's not what you or I would csdl—^
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**Don*t tell me what Fd call it! If I want to call it love, that's what Fll call it! But whatever it is, you still feel it; those things don't die so quickly." He saw her face change. ''As you well know. And if you feel it and I still want to take care of you, we could go on together just as we have. We could— **
''Don't say £at!" She pulled her hand away, her eyes blazing. "You demean yourself. Why would you settle for that? You deserve better than me; you deserve a woman who'll love you and appreciate your taking care of her, even if that means making decisions for her . . . someone who'll give you her attention when you want it. Why do you stay with me? Because I'm an unfinished story? The woman who didn't bend to fit your scenario?"
"Because I love you," he said harshly. "And because even if you didn't love me and didn't always fit my scenario, as you call it, you gave me more than any woman I've loved."
"What did I give you, Wes? What was so special—?"
"My God, you don't know, even now. You gave me the con^)anionship of an independent woman who has her own goals and thinks for herself but still allows a man to help her. You even asked for my help; you weren't too arrogant to admit you could use it. And you acted lov
ingly, whatever you thought you felt. We were partners in every sense of the word. I still want that, and I think you do, too. I know you do; you don't want to make every major decision alone— **
"Why should I? I have a partaer."
Cau^t short, he laughed reluctantiy. "I deserved that. Of course we're still partoers."
"I hope we always will be," she said. "But for the rest—^I meant what I said. All of it. This is the only way I can be honest." She stood and walked to the door. "I want you to leave, Wes. Please."
He stayed where he was. "You'll live with memories. With a ghost. You call that honest?"
"I'll live with myself, and I won't be pretending. That's honest enough for me. And when I see you at the office and we work together and like each other and respect each other, that will be honest, too. I'm offering you a loving friendship. I wish you could be satisfied with that, Wes; it's more than a lot of people have."
Judith Michael
For a moment he felt ashamed. He had thought of himself as wiser and more persistent than Laura for so long that it embarrassed him to think that, somewhere along the way, she had overtaken and passed him. He stood and went to her. "I'll call you in a few days; we haven't gone over the quarterly statements yet."
"Oh." She was taken aback by his abrupt acceptance. Maybe I wanted him to try a little harder, she thought wryly. But she knew she didn't. She was satisfied—at least for tonight. In a week, two weeks, two months, in an empty bed or sitting alone in a restaurant, she might long for him. But she'd face that when the time came. For now, she was relieved. "Good night, dear Wes. And thank you for ... so much. For everything."
He kissed her hghtly on the lips. "I'll talk to you soon." And he went down the stairs to the front door and into the courtyard, then disappeared through the passageway into the street.
Laura listened to his receding footsteps. Then she turned: the caterer's staff was loading the last of the dishes and extra chairs onto a trolley, to roll it down the same passageway through which Currier had gone. She said goodnight to them, spoke briefly to the caterer, and then closed and locked the door behind them.
Her house was clean. And silent. Not a sound came from the great city beyond the court. She walked through her neat, shadowy rooms; she stood in the roof garden where the sounds of traffic reached her and reminded her she was in New York, with work to do and her own empire to build. Then she went downstairs again and into her bedroom. The last flames were lazily dancing in the fireplace, and she sat on the crewel-worked chaise, watching them.
Starting again; alone and beginning a new time in my life. Isn't it amazing, she mused, though no one was there to answer, how many times in a lifetime a person staits again?
I
I
!
Chapter 25
THE fourth theft was in Carlos Serrano's apartment high above the pounding surf of Acapulco's beach. It was widely known that he had amassed one of the world's great collections of Mexican impressionists, and six of those paintings, neatly cut from their frames, were gone when he returned in November from visiting friends in New York, Miami, and Palm Beach. The police found no sign of forced entry, nor were there any clues. They interviewed Carlos Serrano's personal staff, everyone who worked in the building, and vendors who delivered goods to its wealthy residents, and got nowhere. But by then diey were not alone in the investigation: a special insurance investigator had been brought in months earlier, after the robbery of Britt Farley's apartment.
Sam Colby had retired four years earlier, at sixty-five. Long-since divorced, his children grown, he had moved to a retirement conmiunity in Phoenix, looking for sunshine and companionship. But he was bored and witili every month that passed he felt a year older, he'd even begun talldng to himself. He was tired of seeing nobody but his own generation, and he boiled with pent-up energy, envying everyone who was still nmning around the world doing things. And since the insurance business still talked about his legendary career in tracking down stolen art, saving companies from paying millions of doUars in claims, he cadled a former assistant of his, now an executive, and said he'd like an assignment now and
Judith Michael
then, to keep from shriveling up and blowing away like dried mushroom. It wasn't long before he got a telephone call from the director of a consortium of insurance companies, asking him to come to New York.
Once there, he was given two files: one on the theft of three Toulouse-Lautrec paintings from Ravia Guameri's New Yoiic apartment and the other on the theft, more than a year later, of Remington sculptures from Britt Farley's apartment in Paris. "You gotta be kidding," Colby said, thumbing through them. "A year and then some apart, an ocean apart, paintings in one, sculptures in the other—what the hell have I got to go on?"
"Nothing but the method," the director said.
"Method? You mean no clues? That's a method? That's a couple smart cookies who know their business."
"Could be. But if we're dumb enough to pay you to look into it, are you going to thumb your nose at us?"
Colby grinned and gave a small salute. "You'll be hearing from me."
He was small and hunched, his fingers gnaried from arthritis, his face a map of fine lines from which his sharp black eyes looked out at a world he was sure was filled with potential lawbreakers kept honest only through fear of people like him. Each night he prayed that this case wouldn't fade away to nothing, ttmt it would be big enough to keep him busy, and that he would solve it with the brilliance of his most glorious years and thus get more cases, and be busy until the day he died.
He interviewed Havia Guameri, and the maid and butler she had fired, and then he tried to interview Britt Fariey. But Farley was distracted by a concert tour he was giving and a film being made about him, so Colby waited until both were finished. While he was waiting, he received another call from New York. A major theft of early twentieth-century paintings had occurred in the Palm Springs home of Sid and Amelia Laughton. And the method was the same.
Fbr the first time, Sam Colby felt the familiar thrill of the hunt. There might be something here after all. Paris, New Yotky Pahn Springs: that wouldn't be a problem for real professionals. What was even more interesting were the dates: the Farley theft had been in June, and the Laughton theft in Sep-
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tember. Four months' elapsed time instead of a year and a half. Whoever it was—a ring or a couple of guys or even a solo—either they were getting cocky or desperate for money. And for an investigator, that was a major break.
Two months later, in November, Carlos Serrano's Acapulco apartment was robbed. Then Sam Colby knew for sure that he was blessed in the eyes of the Lx)rd. He'd thought he was going to waste away in that danmed desert, and instead he'd been given what could be one of the major stories of the art world, and one of the biggest jobs of his life.
It was supposed to be a holiday for just the two of them, but at the last minute Judd caught a cold and Allison wanted to stay with him, so Ben went to New York alone. He traveled so much for Salinger Hotels that it wasn't a novelty, but this time he was almost glad to be alone: he could shop at leisure for Allison's Christmas present, and he wanted to visit the studios of some young artists he'd been hearing about.
Art had become a passion with Ben. He had begun buying paintings soon after he and Allison were married, when he watched her buy for pleasure and as an investment. When she decided to open an art gallery in Boston, his buying speeded up, partly so he could share her interests but also because he wanted possessions that he bought simply because they I pleased him. All his life Ben had taken care of his needs, but he had never bought something just because it gave him a good feeling to look at it.
And he was a good buyer. He found that he had an instinct about which artists would last; he bought carefully and unemotionally; and already some of the painters whose works he I had bought only a year or two earlier for modest sums were [being "discovered" by gallery owners and art critics. Ah-eady Ben was worth
considerably more than when he'd started collecting—which was what had to happen if he ever hoped to pail his own weight in his wife's family.
Shopping for Christmas presents on his trip to New York, be went to Fortunoff and bought a slender diamond necklace for Allison, with a sapphire heart suspended from it. Then, at Ruth Blundca's, he found a rock crystal teapot for Leni. As he filled out the mailing form for it to be shipped to his house on
Judith Michael
Beacon Hill, he felt a strange melancholy. He wanted Leni*s love, or at least her approval, and as far as he could tell he*d never gotten either one. In all the time he had been part of that family, Leni had been friendly, carefully proper in remembering Christmas and his birthday, interested in his work and his opinions when the family was at dinner ... but Ben never stopped feeling that she was wary of him. He told himself it was ridiculous, but still it seemed to him she was watching for him to say something or do something, as if she were waiting to find out why he was there. He didn't worry about it as much as he had the first year, when he kept expecting some kind of bombshell, but it still bothered him.
His work and his shopping done for the day, he strolled through the city. It was mild for December, and the sun was shining, and with a wry pleasure he walked the streets he had once scouted for burglaries or places to hide from possible pursuit. He walked them now with an easy stride. He knew what he was doing, he had most of what he wanted, and New York held no threats for him. It was still his favorite city, and he felt at home there.
It was almost five when he turned down Rfty-eighth Street and saw a white canopy he didn't remember seeing before. Then he saw the brass plate beside the entrance that said "Beacon Hill." The New York Beacon Hill, he thought. He remembered it, when it was the New York Salinger, as a sooty, narrow building indistinguishable from thousands of others in the city. Now the brick exterior glowed a soft red, the street level was faced with glass and white marble polished i to a satin finish, and the white canopy stretched to the curb from a lofty entrance bordered in brass.
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